Well that was a sort of game, wasn't it? I mean, it took place in a sort of stadium made of pipes and string in front of a crowd of sorts, so it was probably some sort of game. It wasn't the sort of game you would call brilliant, or remember for longer than half a journey home, but it wasn't the worst game ever. The worst game ever was probably one of the weekend's F.A. Cup ties, all hyped to buggery by the media and all ending up as flat as my Uncle Harry's thumb.

It was the sort of game full of raw-boned endeavour but short on quality. Nob End sort of attacked for a bit but soon realised that they were not properly equipped to deal with a giant goalkeeper, a couple of genuinely frightening centre backs, and full backs who rarely left their stations, so they sort of backed off and hid behind each other. Forest sort of took over after that, in that sort of huff'n'puff way of theirs, and soon began threatening to miss as many opportunities as they normally do. The up-front combination of Murphy and Grabban began to look sort of effective, what with Grabban being a dangerous nuisance and Murphy cleverly hiding his contribution behind his bushel. Grabban actually had the ball in the net, but it was the sort of goal that referees disallow because it was offside. Grabban had another chance later, but it was the sort of chance which is saved by the goalkeeper, and so it was on this occasion.

Half time sort of came and went. In case you were wondering, my Uncle Harry was a wonderful bloke who once gave me half a crown during Bob-a-Job week. All I had to do was carry a few planks of wood to the bottom of his garden, where he was hammering them together with fat nails. I think he may have been making a coffin. Anyway, he swung the hammer, missed the nailhead, and flattened his thumb. There was a lot of blood, and he sent me home.

The second half sort of chugged along for a bit. Nob End had a Pott shot on the hour mark, but Pants saved it with the magic of geometry. With twenty minutes to go, Forest went back to eleven men when Carvalho replaced Murphy, and with ten minutes to go Lolley had the ball in the net. Sadly, it turned out to be the sort of goal which had to be disallowed because it afforded Forest an advantage, and the Referees' Handbook dictates that any circumstance which affords Forest an advantage cannot be tolerated. You get the impression that Forest will have to score four to win one nil, and I'm not sure we've got four in us.

To be honest, I had no idea whether the referee had been "successfully deceived" by the goalkeeper simulating injury, because by that time I was preoccupied with the paralysis in my bum. It was that sort of game - the sort of game which is forgotten in a stretch and a sigh. I'm not even sure what happened in the last ten minutes.

They tell me Forest are moving in the right direction, and they should know, so I sort of agree with them. We are definitely looking like one of those sides who can "look after themselves", but I hope this is to be used as a platform for better things and not just an end in itself. I just don't want to pretend to enjoy the sort of football that reminds me of paralysed buttocks and split thumbs.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
and then is heard no more. It is a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
signifying nothing.